


Containment Breach

by MissNessarose



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Clint is such a dad, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-consenual bondage (but not in a sexual way), Panic Attack (sort of?), Past Abuse, Prison, Prison guards are assholes, Slight Triggering Moment on Wanda's Part, Wanda is Bombarded with Emotions, Wanda is not Happy, sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNessarose/pseuds/MissNessarose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The restraints remind her of the chamber she spent years living in; the close proximity of the cell like the narrow, crumbling brick walls that it consisted of. If she listens close enough she can hear her brother slamming his body into the wall in tandem to her own screams. <i>This is different</i>, they tell her, but it all feels the <i>same</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Containment Breach

**Author's Note:**

> I JUST SAW CIVIL WAR TODAY but that's beside the point - anyhow, the whole straitjacket thing not being touched on somewhat bothered me, because I knew that with Wanda's history she would _not_ go willingly. And I thirst on angst, so I wrote a thing! I mean, there's some fluff and a few jokes hidden in there, so enter if you dare!

 Wanda had already assumed that they would be visiting some sort of prison in the near future; after all, their actions were undoubtedly going to cross some lines, and the punishment to come with it would not be kind, she knew.

A high-security containment center was something she had anticipated—a high-security containment center beneath the _ocean_ was as far from her expectations as possible.

They've only just stepped inside and already her head is making connections she doesn't want to think about, comparing hyper-fluorescent lights to the dim, yellowed lamps she remembers, making her flinch every time a guard passes their group and looks at her funny. As if they were truly, honestly dangerous, they are rolled in on upright metallic slabs, shackled tight to the surface. Her eyes dart around, looking already for an escape even though the rest of her is completely calm about the situation, and Wanda prays that her resolve will hold.

She doesn't want to remember. But her mind cannot let her forget.

Her focus flickers to Clint, who shifts his arm around despite his restraints to get her attention. His gaze is concerned, and he studies her in a near-cautious manner. ' _You okay, kid?_ ' he mouths to her. She swallows, harder than she would like, and nods.

' _It's gonna be okay,'_ he adds, with a grin, and she is thankful for the comfort that it offers her. She does not know what they have to look forward to in this place, but she knows that it will most definitely be easier and kinder than what HYDRA had to offer.

Even so, she can feel herself remembering the the cell, remembering the doctors, the pain, _Pietro..._ and all of it hurts.

Here, she cannot show them weakness. _Stay strong_ , she tells herself, and hopes that she can keep it together.

\- - - -

“Look, I'm just saying—I'm not a fan of tight spaces. Just so you know.”

Despite his warning, Sam stays put in the cell they lock him in, and shows no outward intention of trying to leave it.

It's sad, Wanda thinks, how they are still put under the most severe of protocols despite their full cooperation and significant lack of resistance. As if their compliance didn't matter. (And it doesn't, really—not to them.)

She is the last one that they reach for and she watches the guards at her side hesitate, sharing unsure looks as they move to unlock her restraints.

“You sure this is a good idea?” one asks over his shoulder to his superior. The man in charge—only distinguishable by the fact that he isn't doing any of the hard work—rolls his eyes.

“You'll be fine,” he barks.

Wanda frowns, and closes her eyes to keep herself in check. The others have already been locked in the cells surrounding her, and the door of the last one stands wide open, as if somehow inviting her in. The men still wait, cautiously. One looks in her eyes too curiously, half afraid of what he will see, as if checking for any signs of hostility. Part of her wants to lash out just to scare him, but she knows that it will only bring trouble.

Resistance _always_ brings trouble, her head says, and she shudders. Memories begin trickling back, slowly, through a wall that the past year has built up around them to keep them out and to help her _forget_ , forget what they did to her.

She _remembers_ , and it hurts.

She remembers the musty smell of the hallways, mixed with the stinging scent of antiseptic and laboratory; the feel of the hard mats laid out in the testing rooms, never soft enough after a hard fall; the raw burn in her core when they've had her testing for hours without stopping, and the ache for days afterwards when she's allowed to rest, for that short time. She remembers watching doctors pass by the thick glass of her soundproofed cell, unable to hear what they say when they point at her, coming with clipboards to sit and stare for hours, or take her away to poke and prod her until they're satisfied; the guilt and anguish they instill within her if she fails their impossible tests, and the false sense of pride they let her foster within when she seemingly does something _right_.

It hurts, it _hurts_ , and she chokes on her own breath as her chest constricts with the memories, eyes squeezed tight. Her arms flex instinctively in their restraints, and the men beside her jerk away, afraid. A pair of guards across the room raise their guns.

Her powers cry out to be released, to _defend_ , to _protect_ , but she holds them back in the way that you force tears back to keep from crying, or bite back rage so as not to make a rash decision. _I don't want to hurt them,_ she tells herself, clamping down mentally to hold it all in. _I don't want to hurt them, don't hurt them, don'thurtthem—_

“Kid.” Clint's voice comes to her through the shadowed hollows of her foggy sight, and her eyes flicker, panicked, in his direction. His eyes are kind, and he does not break contact once her gaze meets his. “Wanda, it's okay. You're gonna be fine. I know what you're thinking—”

“Do you?” she asks, laughing. He is merely trying to help, she knows, but she finds his choice of words amusing—how could he _possibly_ know what it was like to go through what she had, to spend years locked up and tested on and _abused_ , both physically and mentally, for a science and a cause that she no longer believed in? He could _never_ know.

More guards reach for the guns on their backs, and she thinks, briefly, that she must sound crazy to them. Absolutely, raving _mad_.

She does not blame them for being afraid.

“Wanda, it's _okay_ ,” Clint says again, with the patience that only a father could express. “I know what you're thinking, I do, and it's going to be fine. It's not going to be like that. Okay?”

She manages, just barely, to suppress any more memories from coming to mind, and she bites her lip, nodding.

“Yeah.”

Gradually, as she steadies her breathing, the men drop their weapons and move back to release her from the slab. They are much more worried than before, but work without another complaint, snapping the cuffs open. Angry red marks mar her wrists—they certainly took no liberties ensuring security, and she tenderly flexes her hands, as if to make sure that they still work.

“Watch it,” one of the guards hisses anxiously, clutching her wrists to keep her still.

Wanda attempts to smile at him. “I know.”

Maybe, cooperation will bring her ease in this facility. Not like the last one, where they _beat her and punished her and_ _ **destroyed her—**_

With a long, steady breath, she eases away the thoughts that come nipping like wild dogs at the corners of her mind, their teeth bared and their intentions harmful. If the man before her gives her a strange look, she pretends not to notice. She follows complacently into the open cell, standing in front of the violent, nervous glares of the guards occupying the center room. Wanda notices—just barely—the glance Clint shoots at Sam across the small bay, the worry in his eyes, and she wonders just what it is that has him so nervous.

“No,” he hisses, half under his breath. “ _No_ , please, you don't understand what you're doing—you're only going to make things worse!”

Sam agrees, adding a firm, “Don't do this!”

Even Scott sends a wary, apologetic glance. “Jesus, guys, really?”

“It wasn't my decision,” the supervisor clarifies, with the stiff apathy only the cruelest of men can express. “But it's a unanimous command, straight down from up top. Refusal is...” He laughs, briefly, even though it isn't funny at all. “...not an option, I'm afraid.”

Whatever Clint begins yelling as he rattles the bars of his cage is completely lost when Wanda sees the item laid out in the arms of the guard stepping into her cell.

A _straitjacket,_ she thinks, bitterly. They want her in a _straitjacket_. The kind you see in horror movies and on television, saved for the people they can't control. Used on the ones that they're _afraid_ of.

And what does that make her?

 _A monster,_ someone whispers in her head.

It reminds her too much of _**before**_.

Her blood rushes in her ears, drowning out the shouting that overtakes the room when she jerks away, backing herself into a corner to _hide_ , to _get away_ , but they're yelling and grabbing for her arms even though hot tears are trailing their way down her face and she's _screaming_ back; she feels like she's ten years old again, trapped under that bed and waiting to die. But no one is here with her, now—no, she is alone, and she is on her own now, while these monsters point pistols and shout to see her hands, _show me your hands, showmeyourhands_

Then the roar is quiet, and she is the only one still screaming, screaming in the silence. The guard at her side, clawing at her arms in a futile attempt to grab her hands, is pushed aside from another person, and Wanda instinctively throws her hands over her head to cover her face.

“Hey,” someone whispers, gently prying their fingers in to pull her arms away from her head. “Hey, it's okay.”

She raises her head tentatively, still trembling and not sure where she is in terms of reality and her headspace. “...Clint?”

“Yeah,” he answers, nodding. His voice is gentle— _soothing_ , she thinks, because it so quickly brings her down from screaming and panicking—and he only barks once more at the guards to back away before returning to that calm tone.

“Yeah, I'm right here. Look at me, kid, okay? You're gonna be fine. I don't want to be in here either, trust me, but we've got to work with what we've got. And I _know_ how much this place is getting to you, okay? I know it's hard. But I also know that you're strong. We've gotten through this much, and we're still okay.” Here, he takes her hands and squeezes them, just enough to provide something stable to hold onto.

Wanda sighs, and squeezes back.

“It's not going to be like what you remember,” he says, as if he were reading her thoughts. “Nobody here will hurt you like they did. I won't let them.”

So much, she believes him. Her hands pull free to wind around his waist, and she embraces him as if she were afraid of letting go.

“I got you, kid,” Clint tells her, with a subtle laugh. “We're gonna make it through this. Hey, asshole, give me that.” He only pulls away to motion to the man behind him, who grimaces at his cursing, but does nothing else.

“Now, I know you don't want to do this...” Cautiously, he puts the straitjacket between them, and Wanda swallows back a sob.

“ _God_ in Heaven...”

“Easy,” he whispers, pausing to make sure she's okay before continuing. “You're gonna be fine. It's nothing—just like a blanket, right? Kind of like a Snuggie.”

She doesn't know just what that is, but Sam and Scott are both chuckling from their cells, so she grins a little.

“Just for a little while. If they want you in this thing, there's nothing we can do, so we'll just roll with it and do what we can.” That grin, Wanda thinks, could convince her to do anything. “Okay?”

“...okay.”

She flinches when he lifts the jacket and the buckles jingle together, too loudly in the silence. Her arms slide easily into the sleeves, and her breath hitches—Clint is hushing her softly, occasionally patting her shoulder while he laces up the buckles, making sure they're tight enough for the bastards watching the whole thing. The last one is pulled taut with a strange sense of finality, and he leans back to watch her reactions, making sure she's alright.

Clint pulls at the shoulders and around the middle with the scrutiny of an unsatisfied mother. “That loose enough? You got enough room to breathe?”

At the moment, Wanda can't bear to look at him. “It's fine.”

“Because I can redo it if you want me to, seriously—”

“It's _fine!_ ” she cries, biting down on her lip and letting the sobs wrench free from her throat. Because she does not want to be here, wrapped up like a mad woman, like a killer. And Clint can't do much else for her but initiate a quick embrace, rubbing her back in steady circles and hushing her.

“It's gonna be fine, kid,” he promises. “I swear.”

Then, they are pulling him away from her little corner and shoving him back into his own cell—he has assisted as they needed, and now it's been done. Wanda stretches her legs out on the floor and sits slack in her little corner, finished with resisting. There's really no point now; there isn't anything worse.

The guard that had been beside her throughout the entire ordeal hands his gun off and takes a small item from another, and steps forward. Complying, she tilts her head about as necessary and lets him strap it around her neck before she even realizes that it is a collar. A shock collar. Like the ones they use on _dogs_ , she thinks. _God_...

“Don't try anything funny, you hear?” he hisses, before drawing back and shutting the cell door behind him.

They already received the rules and regulations speech upstairs; the soldier in charge takes one last pace around the center, staring pointedly into each of their cells, until he is satisfied with the dead, defeated looks in their eyes, and their lack of resistance. Then, they all leave, the elevator sealing itself with one long, last hiss.

And they are alone.

“What the hell did they put on you before they left?” Sam asks her way, knocking on the bars to get her attention.

She opens her mouth to speak and chokes on a lump in her throat, laughing even as tears come to her eyes again. “A collar. A shock collar.”

The boys begin arguing about it all, but she tunes them out to listen to the ramblings of her own mind. These people say that they have the best intentions— _protection, safety, security—_ but to her, it feels just like _before_. The restraints remind her of the chamber she spent years living in; the close proximity of the cell like the narrow, crumbling brick walls that it consisted of. If she listens close enough she can hear her brother slamming his body into the wall in tandem to her own screams.

 _This is different_ , they tell her, but it all feels the _same_.

And this time, there is no one else on the other side of the wall to put their hands up to meet hers, to whisper comfort between their minds and share a sense of familiarity after having suffered together for so long.

Pietro isn't here.

And in this cell, she has never felt so alone. _Would he be proud of who you are now? Of who the world sees you as?_ part of her shouts. She will never know, until she finds him in the life after this, but she wonders if he would understand, if he would put up a fight in her name, or if he would look at her with pity and fear like the rest of them do.

It doesn't matter, because he isn't here.

And he won't be, ever again.

She tries to wipe at her eyes and remembers, angrily, that her arms are bound about her torso. So she lets the tears come—normally, she wouldn't cry in front of people, but after today, what else is there to lose? What humiliation and torment had she not already endured? What yet had they not thrown at her?

There was a time, before, that she had prayed that she and her brother make it out of HYDRA's grip alive and well, unharmed and unscathed. She had prayed, every night, that they would miraculously find their way to a happier life, because that was _not_ what they had asked for, _not_ what they had wanted.

But no salvation had come. And after long weeks, months, years, locked in a cell and treated as more test subject than human being, she had given up hoping. It had done her no good.

Now, she knows better.

She does not know how long they will have to wait, this time, for escape.

And really, it doesn't matter.

Wanda rests her head against the corner of her cell, and sobs.

 


End file.
